


we don't have to be stars exploding in the night

by thefudge



Category: Marvel, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Awkward Sexual Situations, Banter, F/M, Friends to Lovers, reluctant friends at first
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-07-08
Updated: 2017-10-10
Packaged: 2018-11-29 12:17:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 16,179
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11440692
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thefudge/pseuds/thefudge
Summary: Post-Homecoming. Liz has left and Peter struggles with preserving a secret identity and adjusting to a new meddling presence in his life. Peter/Michelle (MJ)





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> yeah, so, for the sake of the story, Aunt May doesn't yet find out he's Spidey, but by the end of the fic she definitely will. I should say I'm not super-familiar with the comics so this will go into AU territory probably. Also I'm adding some backstory for MJ that may not be canon in the next movie. Hope you enjoy!

_We don't have to be stars exploding in the night, or electric eels under the covers._

_ We don't have to be anything quite so unreal, let's just be lovers. _

(magnetic fields - a chicken with its head cut off) 

***

 

i.

 

“Your backpack isn’t zipped.”

Peter whirls around, all sense of momentum lost, as he sees the scooter dashing past him. Michelle lifts her fingers to her forehead as a salutation and disappears in the crowd.

Peter darts in an alley and removes his backpack. Sure enough, one red lycra hand is sticking out from the mouth. In his rush to get back home in time for dinner, he forgot to do his zipper all the way in.

But – she couldn’t have seen much, could she? It's just a hand.

 

 

“I saw you on Flushing.”

Peter stares in earnest at his textbook and pops another carrot stick in his mouth. Maybe if he focuses really hard, Michelle will get bored and return to her book on Maya Angelou.

“That’s not your street, right?”

Peter shrugs noncommittally. “I was, uh, doing some shopping.”

“For a Halloween costume?”

His head snaps up in milliseconds. He almost gets a crick in his neck.

Michelle flashes a rare and very confusing smile. It looks more like a smirk.

He opens his mouth to ask her what she means exactly, but she simply burrows her head in her book, as if that marks the end of their non-existent conversation.

 

 

It’s tricky, cuz Michelle is the new head of the Decathlon. He really wants to do well on the team this year, so he can’t afford to alienate her. He doesn’t _want_ to alienate her. Despite her antisocial ways, she’s…kind of cool. She vaguely reminds him of Bender from _The Breakfast Club_ , only less violent. 

Still, she’s toying with him. She knows something, or she _thinks_ she knows. And that can be dangerous.

Maybe he’s imagining things. Ever since Liz left he’s been a little bit on edge. I mean, sure, he’s accepted that he needs to graduate high-school and take it easy, but that doesn’t mean he can just _relax_.

He remembers that Michelle is very observant. She was the one who noticed when he quit the school band and the chess club. He has to be extra-careful around her.

 

 

“Do you need a ride?”

It’s pouring so hard he can barely see the face underneath the hoodie. He recognized the scooter, though. The paint is slightly chipped in places, but the red is loud and brazen. 

Peter shakes his head, ducking under the terrace of the coffee shop. He’s run out of web, and he doesn’t like to use his suit during bad weather.

“Come on. Hop on. It’s not like you weigh much.”

“Hey, I resent that,” he mutters, because he’s quite proud of the muscle mass he’s amassed in the past months.

Michelle rolls her eyes. “Whatever.”

She looks like a wet dog with a few stranded curls plastered to her cheek.

Peter isn’t sure he should accept, but the cold has seeped through his cardigan, so he jumps on behind her. There isn’t much room for both of them, actually, so she’s kind of sitting in his lap as she navigates the busy streets. He coughs awkwardly as he wraps his arms around her waist. This is the most he’s ever touched a girl.

“You sure grip hard,” she tells him during a red light.

“Sorry, uh, force of habit.”

He tries to weaken his hold, but it’s probably no good. His spider-strength is not always controllable. If he’s crushing her, he has no idea.

“You know, you should really wear a helmet," he says by way of conversation. 

"What for?"

"Safety?" 

Michelle scoffs loud enough for him to hear. He doesn’t like that he’s her object of amusement, so he changes tack.

“How come you always know where I am?”

It’s a legitimate question. It _was_ odd running into her twice in a row outside of school.

“I guess I have spider senses.”

Peter grips her so hard that she almost wheels into a fruit-cart.

“What the _hell_? You want to get us killed?"

They pull to a rough halt. Peter hops out, feeling tendrils of adrenaline shoot out through his whole body. “Uhh, thanks for the ride.”

“We’re not there yet,” she calls after him angrily, but he’s already made a run for it. Classic Peter.

 

 

Neither of them mentions the scooter incident at the Decathlon meet-up. Michelle is surprisingly good at leading a group. Her casual air of indifference is balanced with just enough authority to make the team work. Peter would genuinely commend her on that if he were not completely paranoid about her.

“ _Pete_?” she prompts and he tries not to jump at the sound of his name.

They’re doing try-out questions for the biology section and everyone is being handed a card.

He reads his question out loud. “What is the dose of antibiotics used in pediatric patients?”

Okay, so this seems fairly innocent. But  _pediatric_. It feels like a jab at his kid status.

“Err, that should be 10 to 15 mgs every 4 hours.”

Michelle nods sagely. “Cool. You’re not gonna kill any babies then. Your turn, Ned.”

Ned is sitting across from Peter, and he looks a little pale all of a sudden.

“What is the usual lifespan of the _Achaearanea tepidariorum_ , also commonly known as the house spider?” he reads, swallowing thickly.

 

 

He’s the one who is following her this time. If she’s aware of it, she doesn’t let it show. It’s not like he’s attempting to hide it. He’s not sneaking up on rooftops or following her from the sides of buildings. He wants her to realize what’s happening.

Michelle picks up the pace at a crossroads, and he does the same. His sneakers splash against a puddle. She's almost doing a light sprint. But Peter has more practice at this, so it’s not hard for him to grab her elbow and pull her into an alley mid-flight.

He doesn’t mean to actually push her up against the grimy wall, but he once again misjudges his strength.

Michelle’s eyes go wide. “I’ve got pepper spray, asshole.”

They’re both panting like crazy and Peter’s a bit too close for comfort, but he won’t remove his hand from her arm because she’ll probably try to get away.

“No, you don’t, or you would’ve used it by now.”

Michelle looks sideways, her lithe body knocking into his. “I can throw a good punch.”

“Why don’t we talk instead, huh?”

“In this smelly alley?”  She raises an eyebrow. “Do you have some kind of fetish?”

“You obviously think you know something. So tell me, I’m all ears,” he instigates, hoping that he’s better at intimidation now than he was with Aaron Davis.

Michelle blows air in his face. “If you’re trying to do good cop/bad cop, you suck at it.”

“I’m trying to find out what you know.”

“About?”

“Don’t play dumb.  It really doesn’t suit you. You’ve read – what – the whole school library by now?”

Against her better judgment, she seems pleased with the compliment. “It’s not that hard. We don’t have a wide selection.”

“Michelle –”  And almost unconsciously he pulls her towards him.

“Yeah, okay, I know your secret! Happy?”

Peter’s mouth is trying to work up a reply, but he just stares haplessly at her for a few seconds.

“You’re obviously a drug peddler,” she mutters obliquely. “I mean the late nights, the skipping, the weak excuses…the blank stares. Look, you’re doing one right now.”

Peter doesn’t know if he should laugh or scowl. He settles for the former. “Seriously, a drug peddler? I look that streetwise to you?”

Michelle shrugs. “That or you’re Spider-Man.”

And there it is.

 

 

She lets him into her house through the back door.

“Dad’s probably working late. Come on up and I’ll show you my stuff.”

Peter shuffles through her living room like a ghost. There’s an uncomfortable number of Christmas paraphernalia lying around, even though the holidays are two months away.

Michelle bites her lip. “I promise it's not a cult or anything."

"Um, maybe don't start with that if you want to lighten the mood," he comments, picking up a dry laurel crown. 

"It’s for Mom. I’ll explain ...later.”

It sounds like she'll never explain. He's okay with that.

He shouldn’t be here anyway, and he definitely shouldn’t go up to her room, but he has to see this through. He has to decide if he can let her into his covert operation, which is currently helmed by Ned alone.

He’s not exactly surprised to find her room is basically a box full of books. There’s barely room enough for her bed. Her wardrobe door is ajar and he can see book spines stashed between pairs of jeans. The walls, wherever there’s free space, are covered in Tupac posters and there’s one eye-catching banner above her nightstand. It shows a grainy yellow photo of a woman wearing monocles and a bowtie. Next to her he reads,  “Ask for work. If they don’t give you work, ask for bread. If they do not give you work or bread, then take the bread.”

“Wow,” Peter muses. “That’s quite a stance.”

Michelle smiles proudly. “Emma Goldman. Badass anarchist.”

“Are you an anarchist?” he queries, making sure to side-step any books on the floor. 

“Nah, don’t have the stamina. But I appreciate the sentiment.”

She beckons him to the window that overlooks the weedy garden out front. There’s a gnome with a broken foot lying in the dirt.

“Huh. This place isn’t exactly…”

“Homey?” she offers. “Thank _God_. Don’t you hate it when the fence is white and they have a dog?”

“Who’s they?”

“Practically everyone.”

“I don’t have a dog,” he protests.

“But you probably want one and your aunt won’t allow it.”

She’s right, of course.  She’s obnoxiously wise about these things, like a salt-of-the-earth grandmother. Except there’s something almost vulnerable about her crowded room and this sad little house.

“Here,” she interrupts his line of thinking, shoving an iPad in his arms.

She unlocks the screen and presses on a folder entitled “school project”.

Peter has to stifle a gasp. It’s filled with videos and news articles and sightings of Spider-Man, complete with schedules and exact dates. There’s some audio-recordings too.

“It was really the voice that tipped me off,” she says, looking out the window. “I never forgot that day in DC when I saw him climb the Washington Monument. He talked to me, told me he’d save my friends. I thought it was weird, that he somehow knew _my_ friends were in danger.”

Peter swallows thickly. “Yeah, well, that’s his job…”

“Anyway, I got an audio of you during a Decathlon mock-trial for comparison. After that it was easy to put two and two together. Your sketchy behavior didn’t make sense, seeing as you’re a giant dork. The only other alternative was this.”

Peter turns off the iPad. “Is there any point in me denying any of this?”

“Nope.”

“Right...Looks like you got me all figured out.”

He doesn’t sound upset. He’s oddly relieved. He makes a decent attempt at self-denial, because it’s not the superhero he’s trying to be, the superhero he promised Tony Stark he’d be, but he gets a guilty rush of pleasure when people find out he’s not the ordinary kid down the block.

“How long have you known?” he asks quietly.

“Since DC.”

“That was months ago.”

Michelle folds her arms in a defensive stance. “I had to gather more evidence. You know why this is called a school project? Cuz it started out like one.”

Peter’s mouth falls open. “Are you – are you going to show this to people at school?”

“No, dummy,” she rolls her eyes. “Only to college admission officers.”

“ _What_?”

It comes out after that.  This was going to be her college application for Columbia.

“I’m interested in journalism,” she explains, as if that makes everything all right.

Peter paces her room up and down, not bothering to mind the books. 

“You’re honestly telling me I was going to be your one-way ticket to an Ivy League school?”

“ _Was_? Who says you’re still not?” she teases, but he’s not in the mood for her little jokes.

“What about Emma whatsername?” he points at the poster. “Anarchism and the voice of the people?”

“Hey, a girl’s gotta eat.”

“Look, I’ll get you all the sandwiches and pizzas this side of Queens –”

“So, Spider-Man’s gonna steal for me now?”

It’s weird, but it’s the first time she’s called him that to his face, and they both stop for a moment to contemplate the absurd situation.

And then she bursts into a fit of giggles, so uncharacteristic of her sober self, that he can’t help but join her a few seconds later.

That’s how her father finds them, laughing like spastics at the window.

 

 

Ned is visiting his grandparents in Hawaii for Christmas. Tony’s in Europe; he sent him a brief but not unfeeling text message with an attached photo of the Acropolis. Aunt May has finally started seeing a nice man from the neighborhood – a boring accountant, Peter checked – so she’s out the door most afternoons. He’s glad she’s happy for a change, but that leaves him with almost zero people and nothing to do. Crimes aren’t that hard-going in the holiday season. Just the occasional petty theft and a cat stuck in a tree. More often than not, people need their driveways shoveled. But the friendly Spider-Man has his limits too.

The last Decathlon meeting of the year is cancelled too because too many people are out of state, so Peter shuffles to his locker to gather his stuff and prepare for a pretty uneventful season, when a bunch of Legos fall on him as he opens the door.

_Surprise! Build it for me till I come back?  N._

Peter grins. Ned left him all the pieces to the Millennium Falcon. It was to be their next masterpiece.

“Nice toys,” Michelle comments as she walks past. They’re on friendlier terms ever since the afternoon spent at her house but they still don’t know exactly where they stand. He’s pretty confident she won’t snitch on him, but she’s the only other person in this place who knows who he really is and…well, with Ned gone…

“Hey, wait up. D’you want to build a starship with me?” 

 

 

She doesn’t, but she accepts his offer anyway. She says Christmas is pretty bleak at her house anyway. Peter wants to ask why, seeing as her house was bedecked way in advance, but he doesn’t want to pry. _Ha_. It’s funny how out of the two of them, Michelle’s turning out to be the bigger mystery.

She shows up at his apartment when Aunt May is mercifully out on a date. Peter opens the door and his eyes land immediately on her chest.  She’s wearing the loudest, most embarrassing Christmas sweater he’s ever seen. A reindeer and a snowman are holding hands in the middle of an elf-led reel around a Christmas tree. He has a faint suspicion the whole thing lights up too.

“ _What_?” she demands, eyes narrowed to slits. “My dad got it for me.”

“It’s just – it doesn’t really seem your style.”

“Oh, and you know _my_ style?”

“Hard not to notice it,” he replies smoothly, because he’s learned a thing or two about conversing with her. They stare at each other for a moment too long before he lets her pass through.

 

 

Twenty minutes later they’re stuffing their faces with chips and soda and watching the beginning of _A New Hope_ , because Peter found out she hasn’t actually seen _any_ Star Wars?

“I was too busy reading college-level literature, okay?”

“Everyone at Columbia’s gonna laugh at you, though. I mean it’s practically part of the curriculum.”

“Fine! Let’s watch the damn things.”

Of course, Peter got too excited about this prospect and forgot that this would mean roughly eight hours or more of film.

But he can’t back out now, and he doesn’t really want to. Michelle is good film company. She doesn’t ask a bunch of inane questions, she has the presence of mind not to talk during the important scenes and she doesn’t hog the snack bowl. Ned has been guilty of all those things in the past.

They’re post Obi-Wan death scene when Michelle hits pause.

“Wait, he just _disappears_?”

Okay, maybe one inane question.

“No, he returns to the Force. He’s become pure energy, basically,” he explains.

Michelle throws him a look. “That’s how they cover low-budget shoots these days?”

“Look, you have to commit to the mythology –”

“I _am_ , which is why I’m saying they could’ve given him a better death.”

“But the fact that it’s anti-climactic is the point. He is wise enough to accept when his time has come. It doesn’t need to be something epic.”

“I’m not asking for epic,” she counters, nudging him in the ribs. “I’m asking for a bit more effort. They basically cut two frames from the shot and dropped an empty robe on the floor.”

Peter is about to say that they definitely put more effort than that, but he loses track of his argument because Michelle suddenly grabs the hem of her embarrassing sweater and pulls it over her head.

“It’s getting a bit stuffy.”

Underneath she’s wearing a low-cut T-shirt and a tank top. Both of them doing a poor job of hiding her figure. Or maybe he’s the pervert who can’t help noticing her...embellishments. The bra straps are pink. He really has to stop looking.

_Look away. Just – look – away. Now. **Now!** _

“So, uh, let’s keep watching this low-budget movie, shall we?”

 

 

A bathroom break later, she’s rifling through his drawers.

“Hey!”

“Sorry. Where do you keep the suit?”

“None of your business. Come on, we have _Empire_ to watch.”

Michelle plants her hands on her hips. “Listen, I love this Siskel and Ebert routine, but I’m here for the real entertainment.”  

That’s when the door to his room flies open and Aunt May walks in with an excited grin.

“Real entertainment, huh?”

Peter wants to grab Michelle and hide her under the bed but it’s too late, way too late for that. He realizes also that they’re both dressed down and looking suspiciously guilty of something. Just not what his aunt thinks.

“Peter, you’ve never brought a girl home before. Please introduce me.”

“Oh, she’s not,” Peter scoffs, “a _girl_ , I mean she is one, biologically, but –”

Michelle heaves a sigh. “He’s right. I’m only an optical illusion.”

Aunt May can’t help a small laugh. “I like you. You’re staying for dinner.”

 

 

“So, Michelle, are you Peter’s girlfriend?”

He chokes on his asparagus. And then wishes he’d actually suffocate and die. This is worse than facing off Liz’s dad on a flying plane.

Michelle pulls a loose curl from her face. “No, I’m afraid Peter doesn’t _swing_ that way.”

 “ _Wh-at_?” He spits asparagus all over the table.

“He promised himself to Ned like a year ago, which is really cute, if you ask me,” Michelle continues calmly, dipping some bread into the meatball sauce.

Aunt May smiles coyly. “Well, I did catch them half-naked once.  Peter was in his boxers.”

“ _Really_?” Michelle echoes, raising a scandalized eyebrow at him.

He’s going to kill them both.

 

 

They’ve still got a movie and a half to watch, so the only obvious solution is that Michelle has to sleep over. It’s never occurred to him _or_   her, but Aunt May insists. It started snowing early that afternoon, the roads are blocked anyway, and he’s even got bunk beds, perfect for the occasion.

Michelle shrugs. “I’ll call my dad.”

But Peter is understandably nervous, even after Aunt May makes her “no fooling around” jokes.

Funny, they don’t actually keep watching more _Star Wars_. Now that they have a whole night ahead of them, it beats the purpose.

“Can I see it then?”

“Turn around.”

Michelle, who’s taken the bed above, rolls her eyes and sinks her face in the pillow.

Peter undresses quickly, discarding clothes at random, afraid he’ll chicken out.

He’s got the suit pulled halfway through but it’s like his limbs have gone stiff and he’s forgotten how to dress. He’s got a huge lump in his throat. What if she’ll laugh? It was easier with Ned somehow. Why does he care if Michelle laughs?

Suddenly, he feels a pair of hands on his back and he flinches.

“Here, um, let me help.”

It’s the only time she ever sounds unsure.

He lets her pull the flexible material over his bare shoulders. It should normally mold on him like water but it feels like a million unwieldy needles right now. He turns around too quickly and they almost collide.

She looks up at him and her gaze is hooded.

“Wanna see something cool?” he stammers, and he pushes the button that tightens the loose material all around his joints.

Michelle takes a step back to view him properly. Peter feels like an exhibit in a museum, but the sensation isn’t as bad as he expected. Her eyes travel over him with something like surprise. Is she shocked it fits him? Does he look older? He _must_ look older. His work-out routine must be showing too, and okay, he needs to shut up.

She starts circling him, inspecting him from every possible angle. The atmosphere is oddly loaded for something so innocent. Peter swallows thickly.

“Not bad,” she pronounces.

He feels a trickle of warmth in his stomach, something new and alarming. He still carries a small torch for Liz, and he almost feels he’s betraying her but –

“Hold on, let me show you the eyes.”

And he slips the mask over his head because it’s easier not to show his face. Michelle is predictably delighted with the way his spider eyes shrink and grow.

"Wow, Stark technologies did all that?"

"And more."

Before she can make another smart comment, he jumps on the ceiling and crawls up and down the plaster, making sure to really stretch out his back. Then he stands still and looks down at her. 

"This is all me, by the way. I can do this with or without the suit." 

“Whoa,” she elicits, staring at up him in wonder.

He feels a smug sense of victory that he’s managed to impress the cool rebel girl that never gets fazed…until he realizes that he’s getting a really good view of her pink bra. In fact, this vantage point really gets past fabric and...

He quickly drops down.

“That’s enough for one night.”

“Spoilsport,” she mutters, giving him a soft smile that makes his stomach stir again.

 

 

“Hey, Michelle?”

“Mm?”

She doesn’t sound sleepy. He wonders if she ever _does_ sleep. She seems almost otherworldly like that. If a radioactive spider had bitten _her_ , well, the world would be a very different place right now.

“Why did you flip me the bird?”

She laughs. “What?”

She sits up on her elbow and sticks her head over the edge. Peter is in the bed below.

“At homecoming,” he elaborates. “I was at the door, coming in, and you just flipped me.”

“Ooh, that.” She laughs again. “Well, I knew what you were gonna do. I knew you were gonna bail again and leave us dry.”

“How?”

Loose curls fall in her face.

“I don’t know, I just did. You don’t have a great poker face.”

“I guess I have to work on that.” Michelle reads all the time. It’s no surprise she also reads faces.

“I’m sorry,” he adds.

“Not me you gotta apologize to. Poor Liz. She was more upset than she let on.”

“If I could get a second chance, I’d do everything right, I wouldn’t disappoint her again–”

Michelle snorts. “Trust me, you’d do the same thing all over. I think Captain America had a tutorial about that whole putting country over girlfriend.”

Peter should be contradicting her. He should be telling her there's no such tutorial, but maybe there _should_ be. He should also be thinking about the one that got away, Liz, the girl of his dreams. But instead he observes, out of nowhere, that Michelle’s actually really pretty. Maybe it’s the soft moonlight and the way her hair falls in her face but the effect is so startlingly –

“Still, you could’ve stayed for, like, twenty minutes.”

“Huh?”

“At homecoming?  You could’ve danced one dance and then run off to save the world. Or downtown Queens, whatever.”

Peter stares at a spot above her forehead, trying not to think about how pretty she is and how she’s _technically_ in his bed. “I’ll make a note for next time.”

She snorts. “You think you’ll ever get another girl to go with you?”

“Hey, Spider-Man has many lady fans,” he jokes, and it feels good to make fun of this with someone.

Michelle fans herself in mock-swoon. She affects a thick Southern accent. “Oh, Spider-Man, how strong and fit you are! Your biceps are the stuff of dreams and those manly buns make me want to –”

“Okay, okay!” he laughs and throws his pillow at her. Michelle throws hers back.

They pillow fight for a few minutes until they both grow tired and the feathers float between them like shards of moonlight.

He really needs to stop feeling warm in his stomach.

They lie back down in their respective beds and there is comfortable silence for a while.

“Hey, Michelle?”

“Yeah?”

“Does that sweater of yours light up?”

There’s a resentful pause. “…yes.”

“Please?”

“No.”

“Come on.”

“No. Way.”

 

 

The ceiling is bathed in soft wintry light, reds and yellows and greens. There’s an iridescent shape of a snowman dancing with a reindeer. She holds up the sweater, her expression mutinous.

“Thanks, Michelle,” Peter says.

“Call me MJ.”

“Hmm?”

“I told you my friends call me MJ.”

“Oh…I, yeah. I’m your friend then? Cool. I’m MJ’s friend. MJ’s bud. MJ's special pal.”

“Okay, I take it back.”

“Na-ah, too late, comrade MJ.”

“I’m serious, don’t ever call me that again.”

 

 

They fall asleep in the early hours of dawn. Her hand has fallen off the edge of the bed and Peter knocks it gently as he turns in his sleep.  

It's the beginning of something. 


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sooo, I never expected that this story would get so many responses! You guys are too lovely, honestly! I'm really touched by all the support, and I hope you like this installment too! as usual, i'm not a comic-book aficionado, so if I get some things wrong, don't be mad!

 

ii.

 

“...that concludes my presentation on Japanese Internment Camps and why they are clearly making a comeback in our current political climate. Thank you.”

Michelle’s classmates stare at the blank projector screen in a bizarre combination of boredom and horror. Even Mr. McKinley looks a little squeamish.

“Well, as usual…Michelle, your dedication to uncovering the hard truths of history is admirable,” he comments halfheartedly. “But maybe next time you could practice restraint with the, um, graphic visuals.”

“Isn’t that dressing up the truth to look pretty? Otherwise known as censorship?” she counters with a raised eyebrow.

“Gosh, I am not implying that you should _censor_ anything–”

“But you are, in fact, telling me to _redact_ the icky parts.”

“Michelle, I am merely suggesting that it is not appropriate –”

“All right. Let’s go through each slide, and you can tell me what I should cut out, _Sir_.”

The class issues a collective groan.  Michelle has already restarted the projector. Mr. McKinley never stood a chance.

Everyone slumps back in their seats - teacher included - because there’s really no point in stopping Michelle when she’s on a roll.

Everyone, that is, except Peter Parker.

He’s sitting in the second row, chin in his palm, staring at Michelle with rapt attention. He’s even taking notes.

Oh, he hasn’t heard a word she’s said. And his “notes” are just mindless doodles that might as well stand in for hieroglyphs.

He tried, though. He really tried to pay attention to her appropriately ghastly presentation, but halfway through, he found himself staring at her lips and the cute slant of her nose. He never noticed her nose before, but it’s very well-proportioned in relation to her mouth. He worries he’s objectifying her; he should be admiring her brain. But is it his fault that her face looks especially pretty in the projector light?

It probably is.

He’s read about teenage hormones, how they can turn a perfectly functional human being into a basic Neanderthal. But he hoped he’d be the exception. He wants to treat Michelle like he treats Ned, to see her as a peer, not as a pretty _girl_. 

And it’s not like she made any special effort today. She’s wearing the same dark-colored clothes and ratty jacket. Her hair is also a wild bird’s nest that she’s tied carelessly on top of her head. She’s not batting any proverbial eye-lashes at him. On the contrary, she’s scowling.

It shouldn’t make his heart skip. That’s like getting excited over Aunt May’s three-day leftovers. They’re still edible, but you wouldn’t look at them and go _yum_.

And yet.

 

 

“Great job on the presentation,” Peter tells her later as they’re walking together to their next class. _Together_ might be an embellishment. He caught up with her as she was leaving and she didn’t kick him in the shins.

Michelle smirks. “Thanks. My goal is to make Mr. McKinley throw up by the end of the year.”

“Ha. I’d like to see that happen.”

“You should have your phone on stand-by. You’re my man on the ground. My grip.”

Peter spazzes a little at “my man”, but he punches himself mentally in the groins and recovers in time to ask, “Your _grip_?"

"It's slang for someone in charge of making the camera move." 

"Is that a journalism thing?”

“Absolutely. Christiane Amanpour slips it into conversation all the time. Speaking of which, you owe me one college application. Since you won’t allow me to make you famous.”

Peter smiles nervously and glances over his shoulder to make sure their conversation isn’t being overheard.

“You know, only guilty people do that thing where they always gotta check their six o’clock,” she points out, throwing her weight into his shoulder.

Peter nudges her back. It’s their little game where they show their new status as friends by pretend-wrestling. It totally does not give him butterflies.

“Well, apparently, there are busybodies all over this place, so I have to watch out,” he teases, giving her a pointed look.

“I am not a busybody. I’m a lazy-body, if anything,” she replies in deadpan.

_Just one of the guys. Interchangeable with Ned_ , Peter repeats in his head.

“So, uh, what did you have in mind for the college application?” he prompts.

Michelle smiles one of her rare, mysterious smiles. “You have Tony Stark’s private number, right?”

Peter leans against her locker, arresting her movements.

“What would you need that for?” Irrationally, he feels a little threatened. Tony _is_ notoriously charming. And handsome. And rich. Yes, he could well be her father, but Japanese Internment Camps are making a comeback. The world's going to hell. 

“An exclusive one-on-one interview? And maybe a tour of the new Avengers headquarters?” 

He gapes at her like she’s grown a second head.

“You can’t be serious.”

She tries to pull his arm away from her locker, but she’s always underestimating his strength. “This is my serious face.”

“Don’t you think those admission officers will wonder why a kid from Queens got all the way into the Avengers’ main hub?”

Michelle shakes her head. “But that’s the point. My investigative journalism is just _that_ good.”

“You mean you happening to know someone who knows an Avenger.”

“Tomayto, tomahto…” she trails off, winking at him.

“Nu-uh. No tomatoes. This is strictly eggplant. Or whatever other vegetable spells trouble.”

Michelle makes a face. “I _hate_ eggplant.”

“Exactly.”

 

 

She doesn’t stop trying, though. She asks him about it at the most inopportune of times.

For example, he’s pretending to suck at doing sit-ups during P.E. when she throws a basketball in his _face_.

“Owww.”

Michelle waves at him and makes the signal for phone-call with her fingers.

Peter raises a hand to his already swelling eye.

He flips her the bird.

 

 

“ _Owwwww_.”

She slaps him over the swollen eye. Then she presses the ice-pack to his cheek in a gesture of goodwill.

“Sorry. Only _I_ get to flip you,” she explains.

Peter heaves a sigh. “And you say you had no friends before?”

There’s a pause, during which he takes his time to analyze the situation.  They’re both in the boys’ bathroom and she shouldn’t really be here, but when has Michelle ever listened? She’s standing awfully close to him. In fact, he can count her freckles. They're like an explosion of stars. 

Michelle wavers. “Are you afraid I’ll embarrass you?”

“ _What_?”

“To Tony Stark, I mean.”

“Why would you ever think that?”

Michelle shrugs. “I know I’m not exactly a peach.”

“I think he’d actually like that about you,” Peter muses. Oh yeah, Tony would love her. And he feels that mean possessive streak again. Michelle is _his_ special sardonic friend. She shouldn’t be shared with cocky billionaires.

“It’s not about that,” he begins, hesitantly. “It’s just – not very good things happen to people who get mixed up in this business.”

“I’m already mixed up in it,” she points out, pressing the ice-pack to his face and she doesn’t say anything else, but in the companionable silence that follows, he senses a sort of personal statement: I'm here and I'm not going anywhere.

And he thinks that’s worth a black eye.

 

 

She really won’t give up. She even cajoles poor Ned into it. She’s sitting with the two of them at lunch when she points her fork at his wary friend.

“I bet Ned has Tony Stark’s number.”

“Haha. No, I don’t.”

“But you have _someone’s_ number.”

Ned gulps loudly and kicks Peter’s leg under the table.

“I saw that.” Michelle opens her palm. “Now fess up.”

To say that Ned was not thrilled to find out Michelle is now part of the Spider-Man club is putting it mildly. After all, in his fantasy, there’s only _one_ computer guy.

“Stop hounding him,” Peter intervenes. “He’s got nothing.”

“Like hell. I know where you live, Leeds.”

Ned looks positively alarmed at this, but Peter only rolls his eyes benevolently. “She’s just kidding around.”

Of course, later that night, Ned will barricade his window and hope for the best.

 

 

Michelle is throwing Legos at them.

“ _Boooring_.”

Ned makes a face. “No one asked you to come.”

“ _I_ asked her,” Peter interjects.

“And aren’t you beginning to regret that?” Ned mutters.

They’re finally building the Millennium Falcon, which Peter didn’t get to finish during the holidays. Unfortunately, Michelle has planted herself on his desk and is making sure to encumber their efforts.  

“Let’s do something fuuuun,” she whines, and it sounds both childish and morose. Like an old woman skipping rope. 

“Reading out loud from _Helter Skelter_ is not fun,” Ned grumbles, sliding another Lego into place. He still feels woozy from a particularly graphic passage which Michelle enacted with much gusto.

“Excuse you, the Manson Murders are fascinating.”

“Still not _fun_ ,” Ned insists.

She shrugs. “You have to widen your horizons, Leeds.”

“And you have to find Jesus, _Jones_ ,” Ned retorts. The quip manages to makes all three of them laugh.

Still, there are occasional fricassees.

For instance, when the Millennium Falcon is finally done, Michelle “accidentally” happens to sit on it.

This instigates a major pillow fight between them: Peter and Ned vs. Michelle, the Wrecker.

But Michelle has a secret weapon in her arsenal. Tickling. It has proved fatal when used in high dosage.

She puts her dexterous fingers to work and soon, both Peter and Ned are rolling on the floor wheezing, trying to kick the “Tickle-Monster” (as she aptly calls herself) away.

“You guys are such babies,” she calls out, sticking her fingers under their armpits.

They exhaust themselves so much, they fall asleep before dinner.

They’re spread haphazardly across Peter’s room. This time it’s Ned who’s sprawled on the top bunk while Peter and Michelle are twisted in a strange yin-yang position in the lower bed. She’s got her head on his legs and half his torso is weighing down her arms.

“You smell…like…socks…” she mutters mid-dream.

“You… _are_ …socks…” he replies with sleepy satisfaction, like it's the best comeback in the world.

Michelle pushes him off until he falls out of bed.

 

 

She’s still dead-set on getting Tony Stark’s digits.

As a final effort, she resorts to artfully “borrowing” Peter’s phone when he isn’t looking.

This happens during a walk home. Well, it can't really be described as a _walk_. It starts with Michelle insisting that she wants to see some “spidering”.

“I only got five seconds in your room that one time and the lighting wasn’t even that good. Come on, it’s been forever.”

She thinks he’s being weirdly coy about it, but really, it’s just performance anxiety. Peter has no problem showing Ned clever tricks with his web, but Michelle is a different kind of friend. He’s terrified of letting her down or making an ass out of himself.

But you can’t deny her _two_ things at the same time. She will wear you down, eventually. And despite his anxiety, he’s been looking forward to showing off in front of her. He’s even had embarrassing dreams about it where he’s swinging from building to building while Michelle looks on in an adoring haze.

Did he say _adoring_? No, he meant neutral. Neutral haze.

The result of all this is that they find themselves in a remote alley where he’s slipping into his suit while she holds his backpack with her back turned.

“Do you know you might be flashing the whole neighborhood? People have windows,” she remarks, tapping her foot.

“Thank you for your concern,” he grumbles. “OK, ready.”

She turns around impatiently and proceeds to stare. It’s always a bit of a shock to see him fully dressed up. She might be inarticulate for a moment. The suit really… _enhances_ some aspects of his physique.

Of course, he’s just a guy. A boy, really.

“So… show me the Force, Obi-Wan Kenobi,” she mutters, dropping his backpack.

 

 

“Holy motherfuck.”

“Potty mouth,” he murmurs against her hair. It sounds more like a gargled “ _partymark_ ” because his heart is trying to burst out of his chest.

They’re both currently suspended from a gutter while their feet are dangling in smoggy city air. She’s clinging to him like superglue, her body meshed with his like melted cheese on toast. He can feel _every_ indentation of her body. Her breasts are pressing into his chest. Her head is cradled in his collarbone and the hand which is not holding the web is firmly locked around her waist. And yes, it’s the  _best_.

“Have you done this before?” she questions, eyeing the horizon in trepidation.

“Of course.”

He’s technically carried people before, just not long-distance. But he’ll be damned if he lets her go now.

“If you drop me, I’ll kill you and feed you to some mangy dogs.”

Peter tries to control his breathing. His chuckle sounds hoarse to his ears. “Not the mangy dogs."

"Peter."

"I won’t drop you.” It's a promise wrapped in some other unnameable thing. 

He lets go and shoots his web towards the building in front of them. They free-fall. She screams into his chin. Peter feels electricity running through his veins.

 

 

And yet, throughout all this, she has the presence of mind to search any available pockets. Or maybe it’s just incidental, since she has to grab him _all over_ as he swings them down each boulevard. Her hands land in awkward places by default. She eventually discovers where he’s stashed his phone. Unfortunately, it’s a tricky place between his waist and his lower pelvis.

“Jesus! What are you doing?" he bellows. 

"Holding you!"

"But your hand is -!" and he doesn't know how to finish that.  

He grinds them to a halt on the roof of a department store.

They collapse on the gravelly cement, limbs interlocked.

"Michelle -"

“Aha!”

She’s fished out his phone at last and she’s scrolling through it at sweaty light-speed.

“Thief!”

“Nice comeback.”

He grabs her arm and twists it around. She kicks him in the ribs, but he blocks her attack easily. Still, she’s moving constantly, making sure he can’t parry all her hits. They wrestle for a while until he’s on top of her. Pinning her down, to be exact.

“Are you _crazy_?”

Michelle licks her lips. “Define crazy.”

“I can’t believe you! We’re defying gravity over here and you’re trying to nick my phone?”

“Um, multi-tasking?”

 “I wanted to show you something special and you just –” he starts bitterly, but he’s quickly silenced when one of her hands lands on his cheek.

“It _was_ special, Peter.”

And her eyes shine in a way that can’t be faked. And he should probably get off her now.  

“Let’s get going,” he says, feeling stupid.

 

 

When he deposits her in front of her house, he’s too worked-up to do anything else but say a wishy-washy goodbye, and he doesn’t realize she still has his phone.

 

 

“I didn’t look. I promise.”

She hands him back his phone. They’re sitting together on the railing in the parking lot. The other kids have already left. A custodian is throwing them suspicious looks, but he can't make them leave. 

“I mean okay," she adds, "if you have a folder full of nudes, it’s still safe and sound.”

Her joke falls flat. Peter is still reasonably pissed.

Michelle knocks into him, but he doesn’t knock back. There’s a panicked look on her face. This is their game, after all.

“Look. I know I’m an asshole, but I can’t help it sometimes. Maybe I do it to drive people away, I don’t know.”

“You like it,” he mutters. “Being an asshole.”

Michelle buries her head in her hands. “I also like you.”  

Peter tries to ignore the damned butterflies in his stomach. Bunch of traitors. “You like the suit more. And you want that Stark internship.”

She peeks at him through her fingers. “Yeah. But I also like you.”

“I don’t know if I believe you. I mean, in the last few weeks, you gave me a black-eye, kicked me out of my own bed and stole my phone.”

Michelle smiles sadly. “Dummy. That’s what people do when they like each other.”

 

 

“It’s not even about Stark. I just want to _do_ something. Something that counts,” she confesses, kicking away at a candy wrapper. “You get to swing around town and fight crime. I just…read.”

“That’s important too. Getting an education is the first step -”

“Don’t patronize me.”

“I’m not!” he protests. “I’m serious. You’re the smartest person I know. Like, I’m complimenting you right now even though I’m supposed to be telling you off. _That’s_ how smart you are.”

She scratches her arm and rolls her eyes. “I just think we’re put on this Earth to enact change. And I don’t mean to sound starry-eyed. I’m not talking about like, world peace. I just think every person around us is a tiny revolution, and I just don’t know how to start mine. Maybe it’s Columbia. Or Stark Industries.”

Peter bites his lip. “Sometimes it’s just dumb luck. Like being bitten by a spider.”

Michelle crosses her legs and faces him. She stares into his eyes for a moment. “I don’t think so. If Flash had been bitten by a spider, he’d be squirting web in everyone’s faces and acting like a clown. It matters what you do with your gifts.”

“Funny,” Peter mutters, looking down. “That’s something my uncle said once.”

"What, about _Flash_?"

He chuckles sadly. "No, the other thing." 

It’s getting a bit too emotional for their taste. But he appreciates that Michelle doesn’t pry. She allows this moment to be without further inquiry. 

“So, am I forgiven?” she asks. 

“I don’t know. Will you write my _Moby Dick_ report for me?”

Michelle knocks into him. He knocks back.

 

 

(“By the way, you know when I said I like you?”

“Yeah?”

“I meant as a friend, of course,” she clarifies.

“No, yeah, I figured.”

“Good. I thought there might be some confusion.”)

 

 

He does eventually give her Happy’s number. It’s the best he can do. Besides, he knows how much the chauffeur enjoys being disturbed by teenagers.

Happy rings him up one afternoon to sound his grievances.

“Tell your girlfriend to stop calling me! She’s worse than TMZ.”

Peter smiles stupidly.

“Did you hear me, kid?”

He hasn’t. He’s thinking about _girlfriend_.

 

 

Mr. Harrington has noticed how Peter often sits next to Michelle during meet-ups. At first he thought Peter was just sucking up to the leader, but now he’s not so sure.  He’s caught a smile or two between them. He’s seen how Michelle passes him the cards with something akin to a private joke.  As a rule, romance between Decathlon members is discouraged. He’s seen it happen in past generations and it often complicates things. Competitive sciences and relationships don’t mix that well. But the one time he suggests someone else ought to help Michelle with the cards, he gets two mutinous glares from the lovebirds. And that’s that.

Ned Leeds offers him a sympathetic head-shake and mouths “it’s hopeless”.

 

 

It’s the red scooter that tips him off. He’d recognize it anywhere – slightly chipped, loud and colorful.

She’s surrounded by a gang of men that look twice her age and desperate enough to take on a kid. They’re blocking her path.

“I’ll just run you idiots down.”

“No, you won’t, Princess. Now hand over the scooter.”

One of them grabs her arm while another man takes away her ignition keys. Michelle tries to fight them off, aiming for their groins and knee-caps, but she hasn't got enough stamina for four big guys.

Peter’s never felt this angry before, although he’s been in reasonably worse situations.

When he swings down on his web he doesn’t make any clever jokes, he doesn’t try to outwit his opponents.

“Take your hands off her,” he demands without a hint of humor. He’s got two on the ground before they can blink. The third one, the one who grabbed her arm, he punches hard in the face. He punches him twice, until blood runs down his nose.  

The fourth simply runs away.

“Yeah, you better run!” Michelle yells after him, picking up her keys in momentary victory.

“Thanks,” she turns towards Peter. “Although I could’ve handled it -”

“Are you okay?” he interrupts brusquely, inspecting her arm for injuries like a worried parent. Maybe parent’s not the right word.

“You need to be more careful,” he continues with a touch of accusation in his voice. “What are you even doing in this part of the neighborhood?”

“Hey, don’t victim-blame me! It’s those guys who were goons. And can you take your mask off?”

Peter ignores her request. “I can’t afford to be worrying about you; you shouldn’t even be out this late on a school night. You’re lucky I recognized the scooter.”

“Okay, _Dad_.” And she steps into his personal space, her hands reaching for his throat. She rolls back the fabric. It’s like peeling off a second skin. She feels his Adam’s apple bobbing against her palm. Eventually, she uncovers his face. His hair is slightly tousled and his pupils are wide with adrenaline. He still hasn't completely worn off the rage he felt when she was grabbed by those assholes, and he doesn't know how. 

Michelle is holding his mask. Their faces are close enough that he could hypothetically kiss her.

“I can take you home,” he whispers.

“I have to drive back. I can’t leave my scooter behind,” she mouths just as softly. And it feels as if a bomb might set off at any moment.

“I’ll follow you from above.”

And it’s somehow the most tensely-worded sentence in the English language.

 

 

She feels shivers running down her spine when she thinks of him up there, watching her.

 

 

Michelle jumps when the weight lands in her lap. She looks at the foreign object in mild alarm.

“What’s this?”

“A helmet,” Peter clarifies, sitting down opposite her at lunch.

“What for?”

“For when you take a bath,” he responds without pause. He’s noticed he’s developed a sharper tongue since making her acquaintance.

“Oh, right. Silly me. Why did you put a Mark Twain sticker on it?”

Peter turns a shade red. “Um, I thought you’d like it.”

“I don’t like Mark Twain,” she sniffs.

“Really? But I thought –”

“I _love_ Mark Twain,” she corrects with a small smile. He feels a greedy swarm of butterflies wreaking havoc in his stomach.

Ned is quickly approaching their table, so he knows the moment can’t last, but he has to say one more thing.

“Please promise you’ll wear it.”

He’d like to add, _I don’t know what I’d do with myself if something happened to you_ , but he’s not about to go _Sleepless in Seattle_ on her.

“Wanna come to the cemetery with me after school?” she asks quietly.

The question takes him by such complete surprise he has no idea how to react.

Ned chooses that moment to throw his tray on the table and crash down next to him. “What’re you guys talking about?”

“Charlie Manson,” Michelle replies glibly.

“Not again,” Ned groans.

Peter reaches out across the table to grab his soda. He brushes his fingers quickly against hers. 

_Yes, I’ll come to the cemetery with you after school_ , he’s saying.

Michelle steals one of his fries and winks at him rather poorly. Half of her face twitches.

Ned rolls his eyes. "Are you two doing your thing again?" 

"We don't have a _thing_ "/ "What _thing_?" the two cry out at the same time. 

But they both secretly know they're in trouble. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> you'll find out what's at the cemetery next chapter. stay tuned!


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so, you've probably noticed this story will have more than three chapters? i hope that's good news! i'm a bit worried about this one, idk if it turned out that well, but i'll let u be the judge! i'm still incredibly wowed and humbled by your responses, like i'm terrified of disappointing yall. but enough about that, enjoy! (also, don't get mad at canon inaccuracies or Queens/NY clumsy details. i'm learning! lol)

iii. 

 

“Do you know the atrocity called _The Christmas Shoes_?” Michelle asks, pulling out a hydrangea that looks slightly wilted. She spends a lot of time on the bouquet, making sure it’s in the center of the funeral stone.  

Peter is sitting on the bench across from the main alley. He’s holding the helmet he gave her in his lap. The bright red clashes with the faded greens and greys around him. A spindly ash tree is billowing in the wind. He’s feeling immeasurably out of place.  Not because this is a cemetery, but because this is not _his_ cemetery, not the one where they buried Uncle Ben.

“Can’t say I do.”

“Oh, you’re lucky,” she snorts. “It’s this awful Christmas special; they show reruns of it on ABC Family every year. It’s about this kid whose mother is dying of cancer. He somehow gets it in his head that what she really wants for Christmas is these hideous cheap shoes and that if he gets them for her, she’ll be all right. Rob Lowe also stars as the world’s least convincing sober guy. It’s a mess.”

“Huh…I’ll make sure to steer clear.”

Michelle smiles impishly. “Actually, it’s _hilarious_. Every single stupid frame of that movie is a masterpiece in terrible. Dad and I would sit down and watch it every Christmas and mock the living hell out of it. Anyway, that’s what we _were_ doing the night mom went out. It’s like the _Christmas Shoes_ was finally done with our heckling and wanted to impart some divine justice, you know?”

Her tone of voice is wry, almost easygoing, and if you didn’t know her any better, you would take the anecdote as nothing more than her acerbic sense of humor. It’s not. It’s hard for her to say this, which is why she has her back turned to him and won’t stop fixing the flowers.

“Mom got mad that half of our lights were broken and we were missing a bunch of trinkets. _This tree looks like shit._ Those were her last words to me and dad before she picked up the car keys and drove off. She was in a good mood, too. She was just being spontaneous. She did that sometimes, went off and bought stuff and came home with her bags full. We didn’t even lift our heads from _The_ _Christmas Shoes_ because we knew she’d be back with half of 7-Eleven.”

Michelle gets up and dusts her knees methodically. She then starts pacing back and forth, looking at the bouquet from various angles. “It’s still crooked. Damn gravity.”

“It looks fine to me,” Peter says, keeping his gaze on the helmet. The uncomfortable feeling in his gut metamorphoses into helpless sadness. He can’t say anything that would make things better, because the idea of “better” is hard to grasp when you’re in a cemetery. He knows he won’t cry, but just to be safe, he’ll ogle the headgear for a while. In real life, you don’t cry that much. You just get this watery film over your eyes, and it’s actually _worse_ than crying, because you’re not letting out any emotions, you’re just on the brink of it, like trying to cover up the holes in a sprinkling can.

Michelle eventually stops pacing. But she still stands with her back to him. He should get up and go to her and put his arm around her shoulders or something like that. But he has the distinct notion that she wouldn’t like that, that she likes to stand erect in front of her mother.

All she really needs is a witness. And he can do that.

“That’s why we keep up the decorations,” she explains foggily. “In case you were wondering. I didn’t want you to think we’re, like, Mormons or something.”

 “As screwy as it may sound,” she continues, her mouth puckering around the words, “Dad is still sort of hoping this is all a big joke and that she’ll come back someday. He wants it to be the same when she returns. So we keep them up.”

Peter wipes an invisible smudge off the helmet. Mark Twain's cantankerous face winks at him.  He knows what it’s like to wait for the front door to open and reveal a familiar face from the past. He knows what a bitch it is to live with it. “Do you believe she’ll return?”

“Sure,” she laughs with too much bite in her voice and plops herself down next to him. Her face is hooded. “I also believe Elvis and Kennedy are playing golf on Easter Island.”

“It’s fine to think she’s coming back. It’s a coping mechanism.”

 “I’m past denial, Pete. I’m all the way to acceptance,” she mutters, staring at the flowers. She’s still not pleased. They’re not symmetrical, they’re not right. Nothing ever goes with her mother’s grave.

 _I don’t think acceptance exists_ , he thinks but doesn’t say. This might be a good moment to reach out and take her hand in his, but Michelle turns to him too fast and he misses the chance.

“Are you weirded out?”

“By...?”

“Me, bringing you here to tell you my dead mom story.”

Peter shakes his head slowly. “Death is always weird and it rarely makes sense.”

He sees the big question looming on Michelle’s face from a mile away, but he dodges it awkwardly by pushing the helmet at her.

“You haven’t tried this on.”

Michelle picks it up gingerly, like it’s an egg about to break. She slips it over her head.

“Here, let me…” he trails off, reaching for the straps. He fastens them gently around her chin, his thumb brushing against her jawline tentatively. Her skin is so soft, he can’t help but want to linger there. His knuckles trace the curve of her throat.

“So, how do I look?”

Peter drops his hands. “Like Elvis on Easter Island.”

 

 

Michelle is staring up at the ash tree, her head thrown back inside the helmet. The weight of it feels good. Maybe she should’ve worn one at the funeral. Who knew that headgear can be comforting in its own way? 

She’s trying to play it cool, but it’s not every day she lets someone walk into her past like this. Often times, people say the wrong thing, even if they mean well. Some are tempted to pity her. Others are made uncomfortable. Peter just handed her a shiny red helmet. Maybe he understands. He has his own ghosts. She wonders if he’ll ever talk about them with her. That’s the thing with him. He seems really open and warm, but he’s always got a front ready when stuff gets too emotional. A friendly front, but it’s a front all the same. They’re two sides of the same coin.

“Do you ever think about,” Peter starts tentatively, staring stonily in the distance, “what you’d say to her if you saw her again?”

Michelle blows air through her nostrils. “All the damn time. I have a whole list. Sometimes I even dole out accusations. Like, hey Mom, did you really have to go for a run on Christmas Eve? You couldn’t wait until _after_ the holidays?”

Peter nods with a small smile. “I sometimes blame him too.”

Michelle’s ears perk up. She tries not to let her interest show. She keeps her eyes on the bare branches above.

But it seems that’s the most he’s going to say about his uncle. It’s a little unfair that she unloaded all this stuff on him and he’s going to keep a tight lid on it. She knows she can’t force these things, but patience has never been one of her virtues. Michelle wants to open people up like tuna cans and prod inside with a fork. In a totally respectful way, of course. 

She knocks into him gently and he knocks back, their bodies colliding. It’s a little awkward this time since she’s still wearing the helmet and she gets pretty close to head-butting him.

“Well, I don’t just think about talking to her,” Michelle adds with a forlorn sigh.  “I also fantasize about, like, gathering all the _Christmas Shoes_ DVDs in the tri-state area and going to town on them with a hammer.”

Peter snorts. “I bet she’d approve.”

“Oh yeah. I got my destructive streak from her.”

 _In more than one way_ , she’d like to add. Her mother was a moody, tempestuous creature who often gave her dad hell. He still stuck it out because he loved her deeply, but how far can you stretch that feeling before it loses meaning? Is _she_ the same kind of difficult? Is she worth sticking out for?

She won’t ever say these things out loud, because that would mean losing street credibility, but they sometimes haunt her. In this new world of aliens and superheroes and powers which bend the laws of physics, is it even worth thinking about something as petty as “will you hate me when I don’t wash the dishes?”

She shakes her head. “Do you feel like pancakes? I feel like pancakes.”

 

 

Her scooter zips quickly down Fleet Street past a handful of red-brick townhouses that look like the New York in a Merchant Ivory production. Sometimes he forgets to appreciate the scenery at eye-level since he’s always up on the roofs, chasing a merciless horizon. His instinct is to grip her like steel, but then Michelle has to take one hand off the handles to squeeze his fingers to let her _breathe_ and so he makes an effort not to. 

She takes a hard juncture at the corner of 70th, earning some angry honks from a couple of cars, and he shouts “be careful!” in her ear, squeezing her waist, one hand going up instinctively and brushing up against her left breast and it’s like _no, you’ve just been to a cemetery, Jesus._

It’s awkward for a few blocks until they stop in front of the IHOP. Maybe she didn’t notice, he reasons. It happened really fast, and how sensitive can she be under that thick jacket?

 

 

They’re sitting opposite each other in a cozy booth by the window and Michelle’s boots sometimes knock against his sneakers in a fun little game of whose shoe-wear will get scuffed first. They’re both enjoying their banana pancakes. And she definitely forgot about the boob incident.

 “Sooo… how does it feel to get to first base?” Michelle asks, wriggling her eyebrows suggestively.

Peter buries his head in his plate. 

 

 

They’re in the middle of re-editing the Captain America tapes when Liz calls him.

Ned got this great idea that they could screw around with Cap’s cheery PSA material before the start of the new semester. Since he was put in charge of the computer lab during student hours, he managed to extract the files from the archives, earning him a rare nod of approval from Michelle. For once, she thought he was actually _cool_.

So now the three of them are cooped up in Peter’s room, giggling uproariously while they play around with audio bits of Steve Rogers' interviews. They're trying to make it sound like he’s saying “work hard and believe in poo”. Michelle insisted that they need to add a scatological angle

“Gentlemen, I don’t want to sound immature, but if we don’t get at least two poo’s in there, we will have failed our entire generation.”

Ned and Peter are both in accord; poop is paramount.

But the laughter dies down quickly when the Skype bubble appears on screen with the name Liz Toomes.

Peter, who is hanging upside down from the ceiling, nearly falls over.

“Ouch…”

He scrambles to his laptop and unwittingly hits the green button. _Shit, shit._  

Before he can properly cancel, Liz’s wide eyes stare back at him from the screen. She can probably see his mustard-stained World of Warcraft T-Shirt. And Ned and Michelle sitting awkwardly on the floor behind him.  

“Um, hi, Peter. I hope I’m not interrupting.”

“Hey. Hi. No, we’re just doing schoolwork,” he says breathlessly. Because smart and responsible Liz would probably disapprove of their current activities.

“That’s cool. Hi Ned, Hi Michelle.”

“Hey,” the two wave simultaneously, accidentally knocking over the pizza pie.

“How’s Oregon?” Ned asks without much tact, trying to clean up a big ketchup splotch on his elbow.

“Way less exciting than New York, which is probably for the best,” Liz admits, casting her eyes downward.

“You’re not missing much over here,” Peter stammers, running a nervous hand through his hair. 

“Midtown High is still in one piece?” she asks with a small smile.

“Not after we’re done with it,” Michelle pipes up from behind him.

 “So, you and your mom are doing okay?” Peter asks, feeling like the ghost of her father is in the room right now, watching them. He desperately wants to ask about him. He wants to ask her if she’s visited him in prison. Sometimes, he wishes he could do that himself. Adrian Toomes is the kind of man that marks your life, for better or worse. 

 “Yeah, we’re adjusting better than we thought. I guess I just wanted…to see how you were doing. I’m sorry I didn’t reply to your messages. I was in a weird head space, you understand.”

“Oh yeah, I get it. I wouldn’t have replied to me either,” he motions to himself and it makes her laugh. He doesn’t know how to feel about that.

“I saw your message from two weeks ago and I felt guilty for not replying so…” Liz trails off forlornly.

By this point, he can feel Ned and Michelle staring questioningly at the back of his head.

“But you’re busy right now so I’ll let you go. Maybe we’ll talk some other time,” she adds quickly.  “Um, bye guys.”

She disappears from his screen too quickly for him to say goodbye.

The rest of the evening is spoiled. They don’t feel like editing Cap’s wholesome speech anymore. They just sit around playing video games without much enthusiasm. Ned is quiet and Michelle is colder than usual. Not that she’s ever a bundle of joy, but she doesn’t respond well to any of Peter’s attempts at conversations. She leaves early actually, saying she has to wake up with the chickens tomorrow, even if it’s a Saturday.

“Yeah, we respect the Sabbath, Dad and I,” she mutters, hauling her backpack over her shoulder. “Tell Liz I said hi.”

 

 

“So…do you still like her?” Ned asks tentatively as they’re staring at a Captain America video on mute. “Or is that history?”

Peter rests his chin in his hand. “I don’t know. I obsessed over Liz for so many months, I didn’t let myself see her as a girl I could actually…." _She was never truly real to me._ "She’s in Oregon, anyway.”

“So? Oregon doesn’t automatically put a stop to crushes, you know.”

“No…but her criminal dad definitely helps.”

“Oh, come on,” Ned scoffs, “I’m sure that only makes her more attractive.”

Peter throws a balled-up piece of paper at him. What he wants to say, what he _should_ say but doesn’t yet have the guts, is that his crush was put to gentle death by a grumpy face and a few loose curls. And that grumpy face got under his skin, inch by inch, so now he can’t even call it a crush anymore. He can’t call _anything_ a crush, because he’s in that confusing teenage abyss where everything must be taken seriously and every word counts. He can’t fool around with this, it’s too fragile.

He misses Liz in this abstract way, like missing something you never got to have. But oh God, if Michelle ever left, if she ever moved away –

  _Shit, shit, shit._   She left today. She probably thinks he still likes Liz.

 

 

She doesn’t sit next to him at the decathlon meeting. Then again, she comes in late and doesn’t seem to give her seating much consideration. She plops down next to Cassie and stares poignantly at Mr. Harrington, ignoring him. Or maybe he’s imagining things.

When they team up for drills, she doesn’t join his and Ned’s team, but that’s because she’s already on Cassie’s team, he figures. Flash is also part of her group which makes his stomach knot unpleasantly. Of course, Michelle thinks little of Flash, the pompous jerk, so it shouldn’t even bother him that he’s standing so close to her. She’s probably going to destroy him with a well-chosen insult. Any minute now. Any minute...

"Peter, it's your turn," Mr. Harrington reminds him. "Could you give me the molecular mass of..."

The rest of that question is lost in the ether, because he's staring daggers at Thompson's back. Flash just _laughed_ at something MJ said. And she didn't bite his head off. They're actually getting _along_. No, he's just imagining things again. But maybe he should put on the suit during the break and give Flash a scare in the parking lot...

"The molecular mass of Nitrate, Sir," Flash articulates smugly, "is roughly 62 grams per mol."

"Yes! Well done. Point to Cassie's team," Mr. Harrington declares, and both Cassie and Michelle give Flash the thumbs up. 

“If you don’t stop squeezing your card you’re gonna break it in half,” Ned warns Peter from across the table.

 

 

He calls her at 2 AM like a weirdo.

“You better be in the ER or something,” she mutters groggily.

“Hey so, I was thinking, do you want to grab pancakes tomorrow?”

“What I want is to get some sleep before my alarm goes off at 7. Is that too much to ask?”

“Hah, yeah, sorry, it’s kind of late.”

He can practically hear her rolling her eyes. “No shit, Sherlock. What is it?”

“Nothing. I, uh, just wanted to check that we’re good for pancakes tomorrow.”

“You could’ve asked me at school…” she murmurs, phone cradled in her shoulder.

“Sure, but tomorrow’s Wednesday which means we don’t have any classes together so I’d have to find you during the break, and maybe you’d be busy talking to Flash or something….” Oh God, someone shut him up.

“ _What_? You’re making zero sense.”

Peter shuts his eyes in frustration. “I, um, I caught this guy trying to rob an ATM tonight.”

Michelle sounds mildly interested. “Good job, Spider-Boy.”

“Hey, not cool. We agreed you wouldn’t mock the coat of arms.”

“Spider-Baby? Spider-Boo?” she chortles sleepily.

“Well, FYI, there was another guy after that. A – a biker,” he invents on the spot. “He had a bowie knife. And he seemed to know Krav Maga. He was a tough one to subdue.”

 “ _I’m_ gonna be tough to subdue unless you let me sleep, Spider-Biden.”

“…you mean like Joe Biden?”

But she’s already hung up.

 

 

He wakes up half an hour later. Michelle’s ringing.

“Well, _congrats_. I can’t go back to sleep anymore. You owe me 20.”

“…minutes?”

“ _Dollars_.”

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to –”

“So, let’s play truth or dare.”

“Over the phone?” Peter asks, any remnant of sleep gone as he sits up on his elbows.

“Yeah, why not. So, which one do you pick?”

“Dare?”

“Well, well. Aren’t you a brave little soul. I dare you to lick your big toe.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Really? And how will you even know I’ve done it? You can’t actually see me.”

“Oh, I’ll know.”

Peter looks down at his socked feet. “Do I have to?”

“You can pick truth, I guess.”

“Okay, lay it on me. I choose truth.”

“Have you ever fantasized about your aunt?”

“Jesus!”

He’s so loud he’s sure he might’ve actually woken up aunt May.

“What? She’s a good-looking lady. Anyone with eyes can see that.”

“God, seriously -!”

“Okay, okay. Don’t pull out the smelling salts. I’ll ask something else.”

“Thank you.”

“If she _weren’t_ your aunt, would you then fantasize about her?”

“Michelle!”

He runs a hand over his eyes, trying to block the scarring mental image that’s slowly taking shape on his retina.

“Come on, fess up. Tell me your dark secrets, Parker.”

“Can we move past this _Flowers in the Attic_ moment, please?”

“Sure. Truth. Do you miss Liz?”

Peter stills under the covers. Maybe he should’ve seen this coming, because he’s sorely lacking in preparation.

“It’s okay to say yes, you know. I mean, _I_ miss her,” Michelle replies after an awkward silence. “She was great.”

“She was,” Peter agrees quietly.

“She talked to me about you once or twice.”

Peter sits up so fast he almost hits his head against the bunk ladder.

“She said you’re cute when you’re nervous,” Michelle elaborates without much inflection.

“Oh…what did you say?”

“What did _I_ say?”

“Yeah.”

He can hear her breathing softly on the other end. “I said you look constipated when you’re nervous.”

Peter shakes his head with a knowing smile. Later, he’ll pin this down as the moment he fell in love with her.

 

 

It’s almost 4 AM and they’re still talking. They’ve exhausted current events, graphic novels and the number of times Mrs. Doober in Biology scratched her bum last period.

“She’s a serial scratcher.”

“It’s cuz she wears thongs,” Michelle explains with a yawn.

“Wow, not something I needed to know?”

“Haven’t you noticed she wears those super tight skirts but you can’t see any underwear lining?”

“Uh, maybe she goes commando.”

“Like, no underwear? Jeez, Parker, save some of this material for your spank bank.”

“Can we forget I said that? Like, erase it from human existence?”

“No, no. Mrs. Doober’s cooch deserves some fresh air." 

“Ughhh, I’m gonna throw up.”

"Vaginas make you throw up?" 

" _No_ , just Mrs. Doober's."

“Serves you right for keeping me up until dawn.”

He earnestly wants to say _sorry, I guess we should go to bed now,_ but no one thinks straight at 4 AM. No one has the presence of mind. He might be sleep-addled. And a couple of other things. So instead,

“What are you wearing?”

Michelle snorts loudly.

“…seriously?”

“…yeah.”

“Just, like, a T-shirt and shorts.”

“Shorts?”

“Yes…shorts. Black shorts.”

“How short?” He slips his arm under his head. He’s definitely not thinking straight.

“Uh…halfway to my knees.” Her voice is less confident now. 

“That’s a good length,” he says stupidly. “You have nice legs.”

“You haven’t actually seen them.”

“I can picture them,” he murmurs sleepily.

“Oookay, Spider-Creep.”  

“Hey, it's Spider-Biden to you.”

She laughs, despite herself. “I’m hammered. We should get some rest.”

“Flash doesn’t know your shorts,” he murmurs as an afterthought. He falls asleep with her voice in his ear.

 

 

His obnoxious arch-nemesis slaps a flyer on his desk during study hall, interrupting his light nap.

“Hey, Parker. If you don’t come to my bash, you’re an even bigger penis than I thought.”

He can barely hold his eyes open as it is. He doesn’t care about being a penis.

“No, thanks. I’ve got better things to do.”

Flash sneers at him like a meaner version of Draco Malfoy.

“Playing Barbie with Leeds?”

“What do you have against Barbie? She’s a stewardess and a role model,” Peter argues sleepily.

Flash rolls his eyes. “Look, my out-of-touch parents are making me invite all you decathlon nerds. _Be_ there.”  

“W-wait…all the decathlon…? Did you invite MJ?”

Flash leers smugly. “What do you think, penis?”

 

 

The party’s on Friday at nine sharp, and Peter’s _determined_ to go. To that end, he spends all week cleaning up around the neighborhood, making sure no annoying misdemeanor will interrupt this momentous evening. Flash _invited_ Michelle. Sure, his parents made him do it, but he seemed _way_ too pleased for it to be innocent. He might make a move or something. It’s his birthday, after all. And Peter might accidentally throw him through a window. So, he has to make sure no moves will be made.  

Michelle, on her part, seems oblivious to the invitation’s nefarious intentions.

“I hope he’s got one of those rooms with a telescope. All rich kids do.”

Peter shakes his head. “You know, we could just wing it and not go.”

“And miss out on seeing Flash’s baby photos? You know his family’s got the album displayed in the foyer,” she quips.

Peter chuckles unconvincingly. “Why do you want to see him naked anyway?”

“What?” Michelle squints at him. “ _Ew_ , dude. I said _baby_ photos.”

“Okay, why do you want to see baby Flash naked?”

Michelle leans against her locker gracefully. “Why do you _not_?”

“Because I’m not into child nudity?”

“So…let me get this straight. Going to this party means I’m secretly a pedo?”

Peter sighs, leaning forward. “I just think we could be doing something funner, that’s all. Just you and I." 

“Ned’s going too,” she reminds him with a pointed look. “We can all bail after eleven, if you want. Maybe we can work on those Captain America videos again.  We never did finish our project.”

The memory of that awkward afternoon leaves him with a bad taste in his mouth. He _doesn’t_ want to work on that. He wants to spend time with her, alone.

“Remember, if we don’t include at least two poo’s…”

“We’d be letting down our entire generation, yeah,” he finishes sourly.

So, given Michelle’s lack of awareness, he’s definitely going to this thing. And making sure his girl – well, his _friend_ – won't be hit on by an obnoxious DJ with a trust fund. 

 

 

He calls Happy on Thursday, and the chauffeur is honestly _shocked_ that the kid’s not asking after Tony, or if there’s another dangerous mission available for him. No, he wants….something far less complicated than that. But Happy remains suspicious, because there must be some kind of trick involved. 

“Is this a new fad among you kids?”

“Uh, no? I just need them for a school project.”

“You need me to get you…as many DVDs as possible.”

“Of _The Christmas Shoes_ , yeah.”

“The one with Rob Lowe.”

“The very same.”

Happy knows there’s _something_ not right here, but he can’t tell what. The request seems innocuous enough.

“What are you going to do with these DVDs, Pedro?”

“If I told you, I’d have to kill you.”

“Kid –”

“Look, if you don’t do it, I’ll have to get them myself. And Mr. Stark said not to get into trouble anymore.”

Happy thinks maybe he should retire early, after all. He’s got benefits.

“I guess it’s better than meth,” he grumbles, clicking the phone shut.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sooo, party at Flash's house next time! and other adventures! and maybe more phone calls...about shorts...hmmmm


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> two things. 1. bet yall didn't think i'd come out of retirement, but HERE I AM. this chapter took so damn long because Flash's party was really difficult to put down. blame HIM. 2. you guys should listen to "she's a rainbow" by the rolling stones while u read this chapter! 
> 
> okay, i lied, there's more than two things. THANK YOU for being so lovely and pestering me here and on tumblr to get this chapter done. I'm always rly touched by your cheering, you're like the best fandom mom a girl could have, so bless you. also i read all your reviews, i just didn't have time to get to all of them because of smth called academia (if you are ever tempted by a post-grad, TURN BACK). anyway, i hope you enjoy this chapter!
> 
> p.s. sorry for any editing errors, it's like 3 AM over here and i've got a class to teach tomorrow, i adult good!

iv.

 

In a time-old tradition of mother figures everywhere, Aunt May peeks through the crack in his door.

“Mm, I’d lose that jacket.”

“Hey!” Peter whirls around, caught off-guard, and his first instinct is to use his web to push the doorknob shut but he realizes in due time that his aunt would probably scream or _worse_ , ask him questions.

“Don’t I get any privacy?”

Aunt May pushes the door open. “Not when you’re clearly in some kind of fashion emergency. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you this worried about clothes before.”

Peter sighs as he removes the offensive jacket and drops it in a small heap on the floor. He’s been trying out his entire meager wardrobe. Nothing seems to look good on him, nothing except the suit. But he can’t waltz into Flash’s party like that - much as he’d like to.

“Guys worry about their looks too,” he says, turning back to the mirror. “We just hide it better.”

“I know you do, but I for one think you’re quite handsome,” she says, patting his hair down with a smile.

Peter rolls his eyes emphatically and moves out of her reach. “No offense, Aunt May, but your opinion in this matter is biased. And no one uses _handsome_ anymore.”

“Sure they do, it’s slowly making a comeback. Why are you getting all worked up for, anyway?”

“Uh, just some party at Flash’s.”

“Flash invited _you_ to a party?”

“No need to sound surprised. I’m not the biggest loser in that school anymore.”

“Oh, hon, you never were. But I thought Flash was a pain in the ass.”

“He is.”

“Well?”

Peter heaves a sigh. “Not to sound like a Facebook status, but it’s…complicated.”

Aunt May sits down on the lower bunk and clasps her hands together. There’s a devious glint in her eye. “Oh, this is about a girl, isn’t it?”

 

 

(haha, if this was about a " _girl_ ", it would honestly be a piece of cake.

Michelle is like the supersonic, subatomic, anti-gravity version of a "girl". The word "girl" is like calling a shark a folksy little fish.

god, is he in love with a shark?)

 

 

The blare of bad trap music cascades down the terrace steps. Flash is having a pool party. Of _course_.  

Not that _he_ got the heads-up. He wasted all this time deciding on a T-shirt and jeans when it really didn’t matter. But that’s assholes for you.

Peter would like to place an anonymous tip for rowdy kids having a party, even if that would make him sound like a disgruntled old man. Although…in this neighborhood, it’s likely the cops would arrest _him_ instead.

He follows Mrs. Thompson’s directions and takes a left around the house to reach the raucous back patio.

“Oh, do be a dear and don’t tell Eugene I’m still around the house. He thinks I left for my rumba class,” his mother tells him with a wink.

 _Eugene_ , he snickers to himself. Flash hates it when anyone calls him by his real name.

The birthday boy is floating on a gold-colored raft in the middle of the pool. He’s also holding the world’s largest cocktail glass filled with some hostile looking beverage.

He soon finds out it’s called _The Flash_ , a special brew made for his birthday.  Add Dr. Pepper, ginger ale, and a bunch of other things that shouldn’t go together and voila.

Every guest has to pick up a glass just to be polite.

It’s only struck him now, as he looks around for a familiar mess of curly hair, that Michelle might probably, possibly be wearing a bathing suit.

It’s fine. It’s just dandy.  

Then he realizes Flash has probably seen her in her bathing suit.

“Happy birthday, _Eugene_ ,” he drawls forcefully as he reaches the pool’s edge. He almost wants to throw the gift at him. He just got him a set of regular test tubes, but he can think of creative ways he can shove them up his –

“Why thanks, Penis,” Flash replies with a slight twist to his lips. “You can borrow a pair of trunks, if you want.”

“I’m good.”

They both stare at each other like it’s about to go down…but nothing goes down, because Ned stalks along and pulls Peter away from the pool.

“Dude, I know you shoot web and stuff, but your eyes do not shoot rays, just FYI.”

Peter frowns. “Hey, you’re wearing trunks.”

Ned rubs the back of his head. “Yeah, I thought you knew about the pool…”

He shrugs it off. “Don’t feel like exposing myself anyway.”

“It’s kind of ironic, you know, exposure… Spider-Man…”

“Yeah, good observation, buddy,” Peter remarks distractedly.

“MJ’s here somewhere, I could’ve sworn I’d seen her. But she’s like a ghost, you know,” Ned mutters, glancing around.

Peter wonders whether she’s avoiding Flash…or possibly him? Did he weird her out with his jealousy? Is he being a possessive boyfriend even before he’s an actual boyfriend?

“I mean it, she could work for the Navy SEALs,” Ned rambles on, sipping from his ‘The Flash’ cocktail.

“We should totally bail once we find MJ,” Peter proposes, skillfully avoiding a bunch of girls running towards the pool.

“Bail where? The Stepford Wives next door?”

“I could pick you guys up with my web and –”

“Haha, no. I mean I know it can hold a lot of weight, but you’ll scar poor Michelle.”

Ned is quick to notice the guilty look that crosses Peter’s face.

“Oh my God, you’ve already done that with her! You little traitor!”

“Ned, come on, it was a one or two-time thing…”

But his friend isn’t having it. “I am going to remember this and hold it against you for the rest of your life. On your deathbed, I’m gonna have a Power-Point presentation about it.”  

Peter smiles fondly. “You’re such a softie.”

 

 

Ned has been dispatched to the house to find Michelle while Peter sweeps the back yard, the plan being that all three of them will force Happy to come down here and drive them to the nearest McDonald’s, but just as he’s pushing the French windows aside, he turns back and sees…his superhuman friend with sharp spider-senses falling into the pool?  

 

 

Her head bursts from the water in a shock of pool foam and glitter. She looks like a preternatural mermaid (or _shark_ , he remembers), her skin glowing violet against the water, her eyes sparkling with victory as she shrieks “ _Gotcha_!” and drags him down with her.

Peter has only seconds to realize what’s happening. He’s toppling headfirst into the water. How did she _do_ that? He didn’t see any shapes in the pool, and wouldn’t she have to come up for air? Is she really a mermaid? No, that’s just the lack of oxygen talking.

He’s weighed down by his clothes to the bottom of the pool and when he opens his eyes, he sees her shape, made wavy and volatile in the water. She’s an impish river nymph, dressed in a black one-piece bathing suit, hair flowing freely in all directions, gathering bubbles in its coils. She opens her fist and reveals long, sharp pin. She points above to Flash’s raft and winks.

Peter knows it’ll be a great prank and a great, vindictive moment all around. He knows they’re gonna laugh about it with Ned. He knows that _Eugene_ deserves it.

But he’s not going to waste it on him.

He floats towards Michelle and cups her cheek, pulling her closer. He has a lot more courage underwater. There’s that wonderful tilt of gravity; you’re going down but you still have a chance to rise. Their noses bump against each other and he relishes the strange numbness of their submerged bodies, how they’re both cold and warm, how there’s this laziness to movement, how you can’t help but slowly crash into each other. He captures her mouth with his and it tastes like pool water and her. Sticky, slippery lips, but also smooth like marble, that’s how it feels. Kissing stones, being bruised and caressed, swallowing an explosion.

The kiss is almost chaste because they’re running out of breath and they part their lips only to exchange bubbles of oxygen. They could easily die here.

 He’s got his hands on the back of her waist, pulling her up with him to the surface.

They emerge, dazed, their throats filled up with water.

They cough their lungs out on the tiles, panting like horses at a race.

Their classmates are staring, but no one’s got an opinion because they think it’s just another one of Michelle’s weird quirks. Pull a guy into the pool, do something unspeakable to him underwater.

But for once, she’s got nothing clever to say.

 

 

The trio eats quietly at a table in the back. Ned wonders what happened underwater, but neither of them is in a very talkative mood. They don’t seem to be having a fight, though. Michelle would let him know if that were the case. She’s never been one for sparing feelings. Maybe the fact that they’re both still pretty wet is what’s hindering conversation. Michelle is unsuccessfully drying her hair with napkins and Peter had to borrow some of Flash’s clothes before they left. Not exactly a high point of their evening.

Happy doesn’t seem to notice all of these complex nuances. He bites into his McFish with relish. Oh yeah, he’s joined them. He’s not gonna sit in the _car_ for all his trouble.

“Dude. No one orders the McFish,” Ned observes, a little grossed out.

“Do _you_ wanna drive?” Happy snaps at him.

“Uh…would you let me?”

“Course not.”

“Then it’s not really much of a threat.”

“Son, don’t mess with the bull, or you’ll get the horns.”

Silence.

Happy raps his knuckles against the Formica table impatiently. “You kids these days… no appreciation for classics.”

Ned shakes his head. “No, I got your _Breakfast Club_ reference just fine, I just don’t get why you’d choose to be the principal. Like, that guy was a sucker. ”

Happy’s cheeks turn an unattractive shade of pink.

“That line about raiding Barry Manilow’s wardrobe? That was about him. And _that’s_ your go-to alter-ego?”

Both Michelle and Peter suddenly burst into laughter.

Happy has to reach into his pocket for his cardiac medication.

Ned smiles proudly. Sure, he keeps strange company, but it’s never dull.

 

 

The kiss should make things weird and awkward, and it _does_ , but Thank God for _The Christmas Shoes_. A phrase he never thought he’d utter.  

He has a reason to text Michelle three days after the party.

_I have a surprise for u._

Michelle texts back.   _Tell me._

_It’s a surprise._

_Tell me anyway._

He sends her an emoji of a hammer, which _of course_ piques her interest.

 

 

He loves the way her face scrunches up in disbelief, like _no way_ is this happening.

He hands her the hammer like it’s a corsage and she smiles shyly, gripping it between her fingers.

They never tell you that smashing DVDs with a hammer is strangely therapeutic, even if you don’t have an emotional connection to the movie. But he has to admit, breaking Rob Lowe’s smarmy, toothy smile is immensely satisfying. Destroying Michelle’s source of sadness, if only in metaphorical terms, is also pretty great.

 It’s good exercise too. They’re working all their muscles.

 “Dude…this is the sweetest thing anyone’s ever done for me,” she pants, as a sizable pile of wrecked DVDs amasses at their feet.

Peter coughs to hide his blush. “Yeah well…I couldn’t find all of them, but we’ll get there someday.”

She taps him affectionately with the hammer. “Yeah, we will.”

There’s a husky quality to her voice that’s very _Michelle_ and their faces might be leaning closer than they initially planned, and there’s all sorts of electricity in the air, probably from all the plastic they turned to mush. This would be a great way to transition into a _second_ kiss, one that’s above water, one that doesn’t have a time stamp. He can have his fill of her and there’s no one to stop them. He can almost taste her breath –

The sirens start wailing angrily in the distance.  Followed by the monotone ripple of gunshots.

Peter really hates this city’s perfect timing for crime.

Michelle smiles softly, unlike her, but so much _his_ in this moment.

“Go.”

Peter absorbs her features for a moment longer before he shoots his web and scales the city that calls to him.  

 

 

A few nights later, he clambers through her window like a slobbering drunk.

 “What the hell –”

She’s cut off by a Spider-Man who is visibly limping – _staggering_ , to be precise – as he tries to keep upright. He’s wheezing through his mask, his eyes narrowed to slits.

“I didn’t know where else…” he starts, knocking against a tower of books.

Michelle quickly grabs him by the elbow.

“Jesus, you’re hurt.”

There are cuts and gashes all over his suit, but the most damaged area is around his abdomen which looks a shade darker than it should.

“Come on, I’ll call an ambulance –”

“No,” he rasps. He coughs and it sounds like he’s choking on his own breath. “No, MJ you can’t…I just gotta lie down.”

Michelle guides him haphazardly to her bed and tries to lower him gently. Blood stains her duvet in a Jackson Pollock fashion.  The suit is sticking to his skin, only now it’s a shade darker. She rubs her forehead in a panic.

“We need to cut it off you, or else it’ll get infected.”

She rummages through a drawer and comes up with a small pair of nail scissors. They’re not very sharp or precise, but she hasn’t got the time to debate this.

“I guess if I nick you with these it won’t make much of a difference,” she teases, although her voice is tight with worry.

She only manages to make a few slashes, because the scissors soon become stuck in blood. _Shit._

The fabric is also Stark-manufactured and it won’t be damaged by a measly blade. Do they even have a knife in the kitchen that can cut through this? Going down to find out isn’t worth the risk. If her dad wakes up the whole situation will be made ten times worse.

Michelle sits next to him on the bed. “Look…I’m running out of ideas, so don’t hold whatever comes next against me.”

She throws her leg over his and straddles him, making sure she’s not brushing against any of his wounds. Peter looks up at her through a haze. He’s trying to take off his mask.

“Can you keep it on for now? I…I’d rather not look at your face when I do this,” she preempts as she lowers her face towards his chest and then she grabs at the fabric with her fingers and teeth. She rips into it with her molars, pulling and tugging and scraping. If someone ever witnessed this, she might just have to put a bucket over her head and live with the Amish.

 Peter muffles something under his breath but it sounds like a pained moan.

For a few precious moments, the material doesn’t want to cooperate and she thinks it won’t work, but Michelle has been accidentally practicing for this all her life. She’s been biting into freezer beef jerky since she was seven and her teeth have developed a level of resilience and stamina that you wouldn’t normally encounter in a teenage girl. So she really goes to town on his suit, almost issuing a feral growl to punctuate her fervor.

And incredibly, it works.

 _Holy shit_ , they’re both thinking as she manages, with teeth and nails to make a tear in his suit all the way to his pelvis. His bare, blood-stained skin is finally released from its confines.

Michelle leans back, marveling at her work.

With a gargantuan effort, Peter manages to pull off the mask from his face. His eyes travel downward at his exposed flesh and then back up to Michelle, who is sitting on him like a goddess who has just received her offering. He’s in no position to complain.

“Oh my God,” he says hoarsely, because now he notices she’s got blood on her lips. His blood.

 “You know…” she pants, “next time you want to play the modest hero card, don’t reject whatever super-advanced suit Tony Stark wants to give you.”

He’d like to argue that if he _had_ accepted the swankier suit, she wouldn’t have been able to – holy shit, he still can’t get over this - _maul it with her teeth_.

The fun is over soon. Despite the momentary elation, the head-splitting pain returns with a vengeance. He collapses back on her pillow.

Michelle stares down at the jagged cuts on his abdomen.

“This is bad, Peter. You need to go to the hospital.”

“’s okay…I just need to get my strength back.” His eyes are half-closed, staring into nothing.

“Are you serious?  You can’t even talk.”

“Just…no…hospital cuz…worried… aunt May.”

“That’s honestly the _least_ of your worries, dummy.”

Peter is nodding off, blinking slowly, losing consciousness.

“Damn it, dude! You can’t do this to me. Just – just hold on tight.”

Michelle is in full panic mode now. She sneaks out to the bathroom, which is mercifully close, and grabs cotton swabs, fresh towels, antibiotic cream and alcohol. She knows deep down that he needs stitches and she can’t help with that, but she’ll do her best.

 

 

He almost bites clean through his jaw when she swipes the cotton pad over the open wound.

“ _Fuuuu….ck_.”

“Stings a bit, huh?” she chides, shaking her head.

At least it pulled him out of his stupor.  

She has no idea what she’s doing, but she continues the laborious process of cleaning and bandaging his gashes, well-aware that the wounds will open up again once he tries to stand.

Peter is murmuring something incoherent. Something about her teeth.

She heaves a sigh and runs her fingers softly against his feverish forehead.  His sweat-soaked hair is sticking up in a comical Home Alone impression. She pats it down and the action seems to soothe him.

“No, no, don’t close your eyes again. You need a doctor. And I’m a to-be journalist. Do you understand?”

Peter shakes his head. He raises his arm with staggering effort and tries to touch her cheek.

She swats his fingers away. “Nu-uh, I’m too angry with you. How did this even _happen_? Did you fight a goddamn manticore?”

He’s clearly in no condition to reply, but his guilty look gives her all the information she needs. He bit off more than he could handle, as usual.

“Where’s your phone?”

 

 

She scrolls through the names frantically. Luckily he’s not one of those annoying people who use code names to indicate people they know. She finds Tony Stark and hits dial.  It’s funny how all those times she wanted to get in contact with him mean nothing now she’s finally ringing him.

She’s not expecting him to answer, she’s honestly just hoping to leave a voice mail, but she almost falls over when she hears his voice after the fourth ring.

“Isn’t this way past your bedtime? I mean your poor attractive aunt must be -”

“Hello? Er, Mr. Stark?”

A loaded pause on the other end. “Do I know you?”

“I guess not. But Peter’s bleeding on my bed.”

 

 

Her father is understandably upset. He’s in for a rude awakening when several SUVs park in front of his house, all bearing the STARK trademark, while men and women wearing hazmat suits infiltrate his home.

When his daughter helps them lift a bleeding boy on a stretcher he almost loses his mind.

“Michelle! Where do you think you’re going?”

She’s already zipped up her coat and is walking down the stairs after them.

“I’m really sorry, Dad, but you’ll have to ground me later.”

What really makes her freeze in her step is not his fury but his sorrow. He says, “Michelle, _please_ , whatever’s going on, this isn’t your fight. Stay.”

 Because he’s lost family already and he fears that whatever mess she’s landed herself in, it’s only going to end one way.

Michelle’s shoulders stiffen. She wants to go up to him and squeeze his hand and tell him she’s not really going anywhere, that this is only an emergency, but somehow she doesn’t have the energy for that.

“I’ll be back,” she says hoarsely and follows Stark’s men out the door. She’s not leaving Peter now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i know what you're thinking! "this hoe doesn't update for months and then she drops this BS cliffhanger at the end?" ummmm. i'm... i've got nothing. stay tuned!


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